Although she was nearer my mother’s age than my own, we’d become the closest of friends almost at once, brought together by the bond of common experience. Like mine, her husband had died soon after the wedding, and like me, she had not been devastated to find herself a young widow. Of all my acquaintances, she alone understood what it was to spend years pretending to mourn someone. And even when our histories diverged, it did not drive a wedge between us. When, at last, I came to see Philip’s true character, and found my grief genuine, she accepted that as well, even if it was due to empathy rather than sympathy.

Had Colin not informed me of her arrival in Normandy, I would have guessed in short order, as the yipping barks of her two tiny dogs, Brutus and Caesar, greeted us at the bottom of the stairs. Cécile patently refused to travel without them. I rushed down—realizing full well the hem of my dress was about to be the victim of a brutal attack—and reached for my friend.

“Chérie!” She embraced me and kissed my cheeks three times. “It is unconscionable that you have made me miss you so much and for so long. Paris has been crying for your return.”

“I’m beyond delighted to see you,” I said, squeezing her hand and then tugging at my skirt in a vain attempt to remove the two sets of teeth bent on destroying it.

“They are terrible creatures, are they not?” She picked them up, one in each hand, and scolded them, Caesar, as always, receiving the lighter end of her wrath. Cécile viewed preferential treatment of his namesake the only justice she could give the murdered emperor. “Ah, Monsieur Hargreaves, is it possible you have become even more handsome?” She returned the dogs to the floor so Colin could kiss her hand while she glowed over him.